The sound of trumpets.
Hurried shouts.
Footsteps rushing through the corridors.
The castle was chaos.
Akashin wore armor far heavier than before, marked by scratches, dents, and scars. His helmet rested under one arm, sweat running down his face.
A messenger came running.
— Captain Akashin! They've breached the third wall! We're falling back to the inner courtyard!
— Hold the line! — Akashin ordered. — No enemy sets foot in this castle while I'm still standing!
He ran up the stairs and emerged onto a terrace overlooking the courtyard.
And the players saw it.
Bodies everywhere.
Blood-soaked stone, slick beneath their feet.
Flames devouring banners and wooden structures.
Archers fallen atop the walls.
Ethan felt his stomach twist.
— He had already fought so much… before reaching the throne room.
Akashin leapt into the midst of the soldiers.
— FORM A LINE! — he shouted.
Exhausted as they were, the men obeyed.
The enemy came in waves: soldiers in unfamiliar armor, strange banners, faces the system refused to render clearly—almost like shadows.
Who they were didn't matter.
What they represented did.
The first wave struck.
Steel clashed. Spears thrust. Screams filled the air.
Akashin cut down two. Three. Four.
He blocked a blow, pivoted his body, used the enemy's weight against them. Every movement precise, economical, without waste. Even exhausted… he was still the finest warrior on that field.
But for every enemy that fell, another took their place.
A spear grazed his shoulder, tearing it open.
A sword sliced across his side, scoring the armor.
— Captain! — a soldier cried. — We can't hold much longer!
— As long as I stand, no one reaches the throne room! — Akashin roared, raising his blade once more.
Jay felt something stir inside him.
The stubbornness of a tank.
The refusal to step aside, even with death staring straight ahead.
— This guy… — Jay murmured. — He's the kind of lunatic I'd be.
Marcus added quietly:
— The kind that makes everyone else hold on longer than they should.
They fell back, step by step.
From the courtyard to the stairway.
From the stairway to the main corridor.
From the corridor to the throne hall.
Each retreat left a trail of bodies behind.
Akashin was drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, blood running from countless wounds—his and others'. The armor grew heavier with every step. The sword felt twice its weight.
Still, he took his position before the great throne doors.
The few remaining soldiers formed up beside him. You could count them on one hand.
The queen descended a few steps. Her dress stained with ash, her crown crooked, her face marked by tears… but her gaze unwavering.
— Akashin! — she cried. — Enough!
He didn't turn.
— Fall back inside! Protect the queen!
— I'm ordering you to retreat! — she said, moving closer. — I won't let the last man still fighting for me die like a dog on this floor!
Akashin kept his eyes on the doors.
— I swore… that as long as I breathed, no one would touch you.
— You've kept that oath a hundred times today! — she insisted. — Enough, Akashin! If we run together, there's still time to—
He cut her off.
— Running… with you… would be the one thing I truly want. — His voice let slip what he never said. — But if I turn my back now… they'll kill you from behind. And I don't have the right to allow that.
She stopped in front of him.
Just inches away.
— You have the right… to live — she whispered. — You are more than just a sword.
Akashin closed his eyes for half a second.
— I am the sword that stood between you and the world. And I will remain so… until my final breath.
Then the doors broke.
The invaders flooded in like a torrent of armed shadows.
What followed was a massacre—on both sides.
Akashin no longer fought with technique alone.
He fought on instinct.
On stubbornness.
On love and guilt tangled together.
He cut one down, dodged the second, took a blow to the arm, slammed his shoulder into the third, sent two tumbling down the steps.
The soldiers beside him fell one by one.
The five players felt his exhaustion as if it were their own. Heavy air. Burning lungs. Blurred vision. Each new enemy felt distant, like a nightmare where the body can't move fast enough.
— He should've fallen already… — Elenya murmured, barely realizing she spoke.
— But he refuses to — Sienna replied, her voice trembling.
A spear pierced the side of his armor. Akashin staggered, nearly dropped to his knees… but rose again.
A sword cut into his thigh.
A mace crushed against his ribs, armor or not.
He was forced closer to the throne doors, retreating unwillingly as his legs stopped responding.
— AKASHIN! — the queen's voice echoed, desperate. — PLEASE!
He didn't answer.
He took one more step forward.
Blood dripped onto the stone, mingling with that of his enemies.
The world must have been fading for him.
But the only thing he saw… was the throne behind him.
And her face.
The next moment, the group had already seen before—briefly.
But now…
Now it was like standing inside it.
An enemy broke through from the flank.
The spear was aimed straight at Akashin's chest.
He saw it.
Tried to turn.
Too late.
The players felt his despair as their own: the clear certainty of death approaching, the bitter acceptance.
Alright.
If it had to end like this… let it be before the throne.
But death did not come for him first.
It came for her.
The queen stepped into the path and threw herself between Akashin and the blade.
The sound of metal piercing her chest tore through everyone watching.